“Remember, always stay away from Cell 466.”

That was the first thing they told you when you took the job as an overnight prison guard. Stay away from Cell 466. No explanation. No questions. You just nodded, kept your head down, and did what you were paid to do.

You never saw who—or what—was inside. You never even heard a sound. The door was a slab of solid steel, two feet thick, with only a narrow, barred window near the top. No light ever shone from within, and no one ever entered or left. Whatever was locked in there had to be something truly awful.

For months, your rounds passed without incident. The hum of fluorescent lights. The shuffle of boots on concrete. The quiet hum of machines that had long since replaced conversation.

Until one night.

As you walked past Cell 466, a sound broke the silence—a faint rustle, followed by a dull bang against the steel.

You froze.

Then the noise came again.

There was someone in there. Someone terrifying.